Cabbages & Kings
by frakcancer
Summary: Dateline Madrid, August 20, 1936, where the story is the only thing worth living for. But is that life? Part of "kouw's challenge 2013" on Tumblr.


It was late summer in Madrid and the drowsy heat almost negated the adrenaline of work. Randall Brown settled on the office couch, a tumbler of whisky by his side, ready to doze off, finishing one last ritual before he allowed himself that freedom.

_Smith_ In Barecelona.

_Roberts_ Quit; should be back in England by now.

_McQuillen_ Randall checked his watch. McQuillen would still be in bed, nursing last night's hangover.

_Morgan_ At his typewriter. Good lad.

_Cooper_ Must be waiting outside the bar, marking the seconds to opening.

_Storm._ Where the hell was the woman?

Randall opened one eye, checked the board.

_Storm. Out._

Out? Out where, exactly? He sighed, rose to sitting, tossed back his drink. Thought.

_Out._

With Atadell's patrols roaming the city, he could guess where she was, but he'd not hang a noose around her neck until he could verify his facts.

Her camera was gone. Without the lens cap, he noted. He checked supplies. 10 rolls of film gone. _LS._ She'd taken them. He was going to kill the girl – unless someone got to her first.

He knew it had been a mistake to bring a woman on. Women had mad notions, became obsessed with small details. They couldn't see the larger picture, the political practicality which said that first and foremost, the journalist had to get out of it alive. And Miss Storm was one of the worst. Quixotic, chasing rumours, turning fairy dust into fantastic photos. As head of this bureau he could not live with her. As a journalist, he could not live without her. One way or the other, he needed to find her. He'd warned her the Cuerpo de Investigación y Vigilancia were not to be toyed with. He was fairly sure she took that as a challenge.

Where could she be? Murder was everywhere, porters denouncing tenants for a bit of safety. And the chit was obsessed. All she ever talked about, once she was in her cups, were the rumours. The denunciations. The arrests. The late-night sentencing and later-night executions.

He knew she laughed at him behind his back. Everyone did. But he'd get them all home safely, and make good news in the meanwhile. And if he had to wade through her mess to do so, he would. Better he riffle through her desk than Atadell's men rifle through her body.

And there it was, the scrap of paper which set his senses tingling. A story two weeks old, announcing Atadell's appointment to the Republican police, his future headquarters the confiscated palace of the Condes de Rincón. There'd already been rumours of wine soaked parties and luxurious living. He knew he'd find Miss Storm at today's official inauguration. He suspected she was chasing the wine as much as the story.

He downed a whisky and braced himself with another before sliding the marker next to his name from one side to the other.

_Brown._ Out.

He lurked in the shadows outside the palace, watching her size up the building, the officials strolling in, the unseen eyes on the side streets wondering if their disappeared friends were inside or dead. She was a thing of beauty at work, sharp and focused and pure, so unlike her nightly booze-soaked bar act. He watched her for long minutes, until he noticed a man walk out of the palace and size her up as she clicked her shutter again and again.

He could hear the click. Of her shutter? Of the man's gun? Of his own heart? He could hear it click, tick, stick and release.

_Click._

_Click._

_Bring them all home._

_Click. _

_Click._

_Get the story._

_Click. _

_Click._

_A dead journalist is no good to anyone._

_Click._

_Click._

He ran for her, pulling her after him into an alleyway and then another. She protested, she clawed at his hand, but he would not let her go, would not slow down. He could hear the clicking behind them, the sound of boots or of her camera hitting her belt buckle. He turned right and then left, left and then right, following some map, some order in his head. It didn't matter where they went, so long as he got her away. He ran as long as his breath held out and then stopped, pushing her against a wall.

"You stupid, stupid girl. What were you thinking? Were you thinking?"

"I had to get the shot."

He looks at her, incredulous. "You had to get the shot. You'd have gotten shot. Ridiculous girl."

"But the story…"

"There are a hundred ways to get the story, a thousand ways to tell it without getting killed."

"Where's your sense of adventure, Mr Brown?"

"My sense of adventure lies in getting slowly drunk as we tell the story of how we did *not* get killed. Who do you think cares? The British public?" He barked out a laugh. "All they care about is their new king. Our stories are fishwrap."

"Our stories are what's important."

"So naïve." And she was, a delicious piece of innocence.

"Not naïve. Smart. This is history. Kings come and go. Revolution – that's the story. And I'm the one who'll tell it."

He heard the sound of boots, far away but getting closer.

_Click._

_Click._

_Get her home safe._

_Click._

_Click._

_Do what it takes._

He pushed her harder against the wall, took her face in his hands and kissed her. Speaking, they'd never pass for a harmless pair, but silenced they might be overlooked. The sound of boots faded away and he let her go.

"Why, Mr Brown, are you trying to seduce me?"

"I'm useless at seduction, Miss Storm. But I do enjoy living."

"As do I, Mr Brown. If you treat me to some of that luscious whiskey that's on your breath, I might be convinced to show you how."


End file.
